The Silver Rose (44 page)

Almost immediately the door was opened. Sarah stood on the threshold, a coarse apron wrapped around her gaunt frame. Her hands were stained with some kind of greenish dye, and she wiped them on her apron as she regarded him gravely.

“Good morning.” The conventional greeting spoke itself. Her expression didn’t change, but she stepped back, holding the door wider in invitation. He felt a stab of relief. She
knew why he had come and she was not denying him entrance.

Simon stepped into the square room. He knew immediately that Ariel wasn’t there. “You’re alone?”

Sarah nodded again and closed the door. She gestured to the settle by the fire and went to lift off a cauldron of green bubbling water from the swinging hook above the flame.

Simon reached to help her with the heavy pot. “Is that dye?”

She smiled and set the cauldron down away from the fire. He watched as she prodded the contents with a pair of wooden tongs, then lifted up a length of woven cloth to the light. Simon glanced interrogatively to the spinning wheel and loom in the corner of the cottage and again she smiled. The cloth was all her own work.

It was astonishing, he thought, how she managed to communicate. It was almost as if she threw her thoughts at him. He remembered again the uncanny moments in Ariel’s bedchamber when she had touched his face. She had that same look in her eye now, questing and yet full of a deep knowledge.

Something flickered at the periphery of his vision and he turned his head to the table. Slowly he rose from the settle and went over. He picked up Ariel’s bracelet, holding it in the palm of his hand. Absently he rubbed his thigh, which had been aching like the devil since Ariel’s departure had brought an end to her ministrations.

“She
is
with you, then?”

Sarah nodded and fetched down a bottle from a shelf above the range. She uncorked it and poured a glass of some dark liquid, which she handed to Simon.

It had a strong medicinal smell, reminding him of some of Ariel’s less pleasant tasting potions, but he drank it anyway. He was in the house of a trio of leechwomen, and presumably Sarah was aware of his discomfort. She was aware of so many things.

Simon sat down on the settle again, then stretched out his leg to the fire as he poured the bracelet from hand to hand,
watching the glow of the ruby nestling within the furled silver petals of the rose, the deep fire-shot green of the emerald swan.

“I have come to fetch her,” he said, his eyes still on the bracelet. “Her place is with me. She cannot run away from that.” Now he looked up, across at Sarah, who was seated on a low stool on the other side of the fire.

Her eyes seemed to look right into him.

“I would like her to come back of her own accord . . . because she wants to . . . but . . .” He paused, returning his attention to the bracelet. “But whether she wants to or not, she
must
come back.”

Sarah watched him play with the bracelet as he talked. And she remembered again how the child had played with it for hours, babbling his baby talk, sucking the charm, cutting his teeth on the fine gold links. The man was frowning down at the jewel as he tossed it from hand to hand, running his fingers sensuously over the curve of the serpent’s head, the smooth roundness of the pearl apple.

“Will you support me in this, ma’am?” He looked up sharply, his sea blue eyes both candid and determined.

Sarah rose from her stool. She came over to him and bent to take his face between her worn hands. She looked deep into his eyes and a strange shiver ran down Simon’s spine. Her fingers moved over his face as they had done once before, gently tracing the scar, the etched lines of suffering, the crow’s-feet, the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth.

He sat still, mesmerized by her touch, by her all-seeing gaze. “Do you have the sight?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “I feel that you know so much about me.”

Sarah smiled and shook her head. Slowly she released his face and then took his hands, running a finger over his palms, turning them over to play with his knuckles as if she was learning him in some way. Learning him almost like a lover, he thought with another shiver.

Then she released his hands and moved back to her stool,
where she sat very still, looking at him with that same intensity. But he felt only warmth and strength flowing from her.

“Am I right about Ariel?” he asked into the silence. “I believe you know her almost as a mother. Am I right to insist that she comes back?” He steepled his fingers and regarded Sarah ruefully. “She has a touch of the wild about her, and I don’t want to destroy it. I want her to trust me enough to know that I won’t hurt her.”

Sarah’s face was again grave. To his deep disappointment he could read no answer in her eyes, and she gave nothing away in her quiet stillness.

“Since she’s not here, then I’ll come back later.” Simon rose to his feet. It was only when he was standing that he realized that the ache in his thigh had faded and his leg was moving more easily. These leechwomen had powerful medicines.

Sarah remained seated, her haunted blue eyes bright as they watched him.

He replaced the bracelet on the table, not hiding his disappointment at her lack of reaction. “I can’t read your silence, ma’am.”

Suddenly she rose and walked over to a narrow ladder leading up into the loft. She gestured that he should go up. Puzzled but obedient, Simon climbed with difficulty up the rickety narrow rungs and hauled himself into the small loft area. Ariel’s presence was in the air, so strong he could almost imagine she had left her spirit behind. Her nightgown was thrown over the end of the simple straw-filled pallet where she slept. Her hairbrushes were on a wooden chest, and a pair of shoes had been cast carelessly into a corner.

His heart seemed to jump in his breast and his blood was pounding in his head. On the pillow stood the bone horse, glowing in the light from the round unshuttered window. He limped the two steps necessary to reach the pallet and picked up the horse.

A smile curved his mouth as a deep and glorious certainty
slowly infused his blood. He was a blind, stupid fool. He had understood himself no better than he had understood Ariel. Gently he placed the carving back on the pillow.

He negotiated his way back down the ladder. Sarah was waiting for him, standing immobile by the table.

She smiled.

“You knew what I didn’t know myself,” he said wonderingly. “It never occurred to me that I could love another woman other than Helene . . . let alone a Ravenspeare. And I don’t suppose it ever occurred to Ariel that she too could love against all the forces of history and reason.”

Sarah’s smile didn’t waver. She came toward him and, taking his hands, kissed his cheek. He pressed his lips to her soft, parchmentlike cheek and inhaled her scent and was filled with an immeasurable sense of comfort.

“I’ll return later, ma’am.”

Sarah picked up the bracelet as the door closed behind him. The bracelet had been the only thing she’d had time to give her baby when she’d sent him away to his uncle. The lords of Ravenspeare, their knives pressed to her belly, had given her time to make provision for her son before they’d taken her away, and she remembered now how pathetically grateful she’d been for that consideration. As grateful as a victim to his torturer for some unhoped-for leniency. She’d arranged for the child to be taken to Geoffrey, and she’d enclosed the bracelet . . . in pitiful payment, in gratitude . . . for what she begged him to do for Owen’s son.

And somehow the bracelet had passed from Geoffrey’s hands to Ravenspeare hands—following some other dark strand of blood and passion flowing between the two families.

Many years ago, Sarah would have wept for the memories that now consumed her, but her tears were long since dried. The well had dried up when she’d understood how pointless tears were, how useless in the face of reality—a blind daughter to care for and a life to live and make good for both of them. She had had only one driving condition for
the new life. Her son must never be touched by his mother’s violation. He must never know in his mother this broken, dreadfully damaged woman. Therefore his mother must disappear so completely that not even Geoffrey could find her. And she had succeeded.

The sound of voices outside brought an end to her reverie. She turned her attention to the pot of soup simmering on the trivet as Ariel bounced energetically through the door, Jenny following rather more slowly.

“Edgar says all the wedding guests have gone home, Sarah. Ranulf apparently told them that the celebrations were at an end and sent them packing! Isn’t that unbelievable, even for my brother?” She hung her cloak on the peg by the door and began to lay out soup bowls as she spoke.

“But your husband and his friends are still there,” Jenny put in.

“Yes.” Ariel set a dish of salt on the table. “So Edgar says. And Simon told him to be ready to move the stud to Hawkesmoor the day after tomorrow.” She sat down on a stool, propping her elbows on the table. And soon after that, the Hawkesmoor would be ready to leave himself.

She picked up her bracelet from the table and clasped it around her wrist, wondering idly why she’d forgotten to put it on that morning. But then, she was so miserable and preoccupied, it was amazing she remembered her own head.

Presumably, as soon as Simon was ready to leave Ravenspeare, he would come for her and cart her off to Hawkesmoor willy-nilly. An exasperated husband dealing with a recalcitrant wife.

Presumably, once the preparations were made for moving the stud to Hawkesmoor, that was what he would do. It would not be a simple transport, so it would take a day or two to put in train. She supposed she should be grateful that he was still willing to allow her to keep her horses—to pursue her
hobby
under his eye. But she wasn’t. She knew what she wanted, and she knew she was crying for the moon.

She became aware of Sarah’s eyes on her and flushed, knowing that the older woman would have read her thoughts.

She couldn’t continue to cower in Sarah’s cottage. It was cowardly and futile. And she couldn’t bear him to come and drag her away. “I’d better go back to the castle,” she said heavily. “Nothing’s going to change; I don’t know why I ever thought it might. I have no choices anymore.”

Sarah smiled more to herself than to Ariel and ladled barley soup into the waiting bowls.

The three lords of Ravenspeare were gathered in the Great Hall when Simon returned to the castle.

“Ah, Hawkesmoor, well timed indeed. We’re having a little party this evening. I do trust you and your friends will join us.” Ranulf reached over the table to fill a crystal glass with wine, which he held out to the new arrival. “Try this. I’d value your opinion.”

Simon took a sip and nodded. “A fine rioja.” He sat down on the long bench. “It’s very quiet in here these days.”

“Sadly so,” Roland said. “I must say I miss the festivities. But Ranulf has put together a little entertainment for us all tonight. You will attend, won’t you?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, it’s a very fine entertainment,” Ralph babbled. “You’ll enjoy it, Hawkesmoor, I promise you.”

Simon drank his wine thoughtfully. If they were up to one of their lethal little tricks again, he’d best be on his guard. And the most effective way to do that was to appear not to be. Lulled into a false sense of security, they would overreach themselves or spring their trap prematurely.

Of course, he could always refuse to play their nasty little games, but he was in a mood to meet his brothers-in-law head-on. He was growing bored with turning the other cheek.

He nodded pleasantly. “I’m sure it will be a most amusing evening, gentlemen.”

Ralph giggled into his wine. “Oh, yes, most amusing.”

“How long are you planning on staying, Hawkesmoor?” Roland inquired. “Not that I mean to say you’re overstaying your welcome or anything . . . but Ranulf and I have a mind to return to London soon. Winter in the country palls damnably, don’t you agree?”

“I’ll be out of your hair in a day or two,” Simon said easily. “I expect Ariel to return from Lady Kelburn’s quite soon.”

“Ah.” Roland nodded and sipped his wine. “Quite so.” He glanced toward the door as the clump of booted feet, the jangle of spurs, heralded the return of the cadre from a hawking expedition. “Gentlemen, my brothers and I have planned a treat for you this evening. A little entertainment in true Ravenspeare style.”

Jack cast his whip and gloves on the table. “Sounds interesting.” He raised an interrogative brow at Simon, who shrugged and pushed the wine bottle across to him.

“Try this. It’s a fine rioja. Our host’s cellars are beyond compare.”

Simon had the air of one settled comfortably in the company of friends, Jack thought, startled to see the earl so much at ease with his brothers-in-law. Imperceptibly he had developed the same nonchalant, almost slovenly air as he sprawled at the table, cradling his wine goblet in one hand, his eyes heavy lidded as if he’d already been drinking deep.

But what might fool the Ravenspeares wouldn’t fool the cadre. They took their cue from Simon, without as yet knowing why, and slouched at their ease at the table.

The girls arrived half an hour later. Fourteen of them, the cream of Mistress Hibbert’s establishment. Ranulf had picked them carefully. He wanted them young, fresh, as yet unmarked by their profession, and among their number were two accredited virgins. Pale, frightened little girls, whose tawdry finery made them look like children dressing up in their mothers’ clothes.

“Come, come, my pretties.” Ranulf rose from the table, clapping his hands. “Come and drink . . . eat . . . See what we have for you. Delicacies I daresay you’ve never even dreamed of.”

The servants had piled platters of oysters, smoked eel and trout, and golden-crusted venison patties on the table, but the younger girls’ eyes all went as one to the basket of sweet pastries, the rhenish cream, the marchpane cakes, the bowls of syllabub.

“Come sit with me.” Simon reached out and grabbed the hand of the littlest and frailest girl. He moved up on the bench to accommodate her and selected an oyster in its gray craggy shell. He held it to her lips and the child opened her mouth obediently, swallowing the slithery thing with a small shudder. She shuddered again when the big, fearsomely ugly man put an arm around her, drawing her against him on the bench.